


and so I fall (in the weeping brook)

by HelenaKey



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Forced Marriage, Internal Conflict, Nightmares, Relationship Study, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Violence, Tyrion-centric, Unhealthy Relationships, Unstable Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there she was again, telling him how she was going to throw herself into the Blackwaters; how she was going to wipe out her disgraced linage from the face of the earth, and take away his one chance to have a legitimate son. It was one of those sad midnight phrases; one of those awful threats that always came whenever Sansa made the mistake of mixing memories with summerwine. Tyrion paid little mind to her, as usual, for he knew that no matter how baleful it sounded, his little wife’s sabre-rattling was never to take seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so I fall (in the weeping brook)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, what can I say? I've been shipping these two for quite some time now but I hadn't found the time or inspiration to writte about them. I'm glad I finally did :) I think they are a very intesting couple, no matter if you interpret their relationship as just friendship or as something more. They are just that kind of ship, you know? 
> 
> Anyway, I must admit that in this story I described their relationship as something way more dark than it was on the series, but I've been hearing how different their interactions are in the books and even thought I've never read them I wanted to writte something about that. Hope you like it! And if you do, please leave feedback :)

And there she was again, telling him how she was going to throw herself into the Blackwaters; how she was going to wipe out her disgraced linage from the face of the earth, and take away his one chance to have a legitimate son. It was one of those sad midnight phrases; one of those awful threats that always came whenever Sansa made the mistake of mixing memories with summerwine. Tyrion paid little mind to her, as usual, for he knew that no matter how baleful it sounded, his little wife's sabre-rattling was never to take seriously. Instead, he clumsily climbed to his side of the bed, taking off the small brown boots that had been piercing his feet since the early hours of the morning, and once settled between the engulfing white pillows, did his best to pretend that he was paying attention.

Sansa’s rage only flared in the dark; when her hands and feet were so dangerously close to him that he could feel the warmth coming off of her skin; when their heads laid near each other on the pillows, and their breaths mixed in a chilly grey cloud brought by the winter cold. It was a strange scene; even more if you had in count the quiet indifference with which they treated one another when the sun was up and the closeness of the night disappeared. What startled Tyrion the most about these exchanges, however, wasn’t the disparity of his wife’s behavior, but the fact that, depending on which consternation she was currently dwelling, he could be seen by Sansa’s eyes as both a confident and an enemy.

When King Joffrey was the reason behind her torments, Tyrion’s little wife would turn to him as the frightened girl she was; asking for council, protection, and in time to time, sympathy. He would hold her hand (as he usually did when the unfairness of the world seemed too much and Sansa looked at the brink of falling apart) and if it was wise to do so, he would speak reassuring words. When their marriage got on the way, however, and his wife found herself forced to do things she was not prepared for, the edge of her sword was thrusted upon him. Her fragility turned into sourness, then, and her calls for help and good graces were quickly exchanged for the most awful threats; usually against herself, and rarely against him. 

Tyrion barely even heard her when she said things like this; for he was used already to her quiet reproaches, and the violence in her words no longer made his stomach stir. In those moments, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about her. He wouldn’t mind if she left or if she stayed, if she had drowned or if she was still in the Blackwaters, looking down at the angry river. After all, Sansa rarely had the courage to get out of the bedroom, and even when she managed to cross the door and get pass the guards, a primary love for life always made her come back. Tyrion would wake up, then, to find her sleeping and breathing heavily on her side of the bed; as if she were fighting against the waters in the depth of her dreams. He would know then that she had been afraid; that once again she had renounced to death; and the most gracious part of him would feel relieved. 

In her dreams, wild as they were, Sansa touched him with trembling fingers; moving in a tremulous sway, as if she were swimming. As if she were sinking in the darkest ocean and he were the only thing keeping her head over the water. Tyrion would hold her idly, with the hesitancy of a man petting a dog that once bit him, but would let the girl do as she pleased until morning came back to separate them. Once the sun was up and the walls between them were build up high again, he always kept his distance, and it never even occurred to him to speak about the matter. Sansa, cold and stoic as ever, never failed to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He pitied her, somehow. Her tragic determinations, her passive aggressive comments; the way she roughly slammed the door of the bedroom every time the world proved once again to be full of injustice and cruelty – it was all part of a galling scene Tyrion couldn’t take his eyes from. Sansa was still young and fearful, but amidst all the pain and tears and wrongdoings that she had meet in her path, something about her had become callous; perhaps even cruel. Sometimes he wondered if she truly believed her own threats; if she truly meant her awful blackmails or her disguised insults. He had no way to tell, really; Tyrion knew very little about her, despite the time they’d spent together.

It occurred to him, in one of those nights fogged by cold breath and quiet sobbing, that Sansa deserved someone more dismal than him. Someone who could cry and scream before adversity in the marvelous way she did; who could talk freely and without a care of what she might or might not find offensive; someone who could glare at her with the same intensity that made his father’s eyes shine whenever he spared him a glance. Two people living in the most precarious leverage; hurting each other every week, every day, every waking moment; always trying to prove who’s the one suffering more. What magnificent couple they would be, then!

But he couldn’t be that for her. Tyrion had chosen silence, and his mind was set in not disrupting it. He could only stay awake and pretend to hear her complains in the middle of the night, grateful for the rare closeness that Sansa allowed between them when her mind, still sluggish for the wine, found in him a confident. And yes, he could admit, that those moments made him both bitter and happy; for his wife cared enough for him to trust him her tears, but reproached him enough to curse him at the same time.

It was so strange! To love and hate someone in that way… To wish to keep them safe and unharmed, but as far away from you as possible. It was even stranger when he started to fall asleep, lulled by hurtful words and foreseeable recriminations; when he began to dwell between the firsts layers of sleep and the blinding lights of reality, taking into his dreams only Sansa’s stiff voice and the harsh sounds distorting her thin red lips.

That night, a few minutes after falling in that strange dimension of dream, Tyrion woke up startled. He turned to look beside him, trying to figure out what had disrupted his rest, and found Sansa sleeping on the other side of the bed; slightly stirring under the sheets. He wondered why she was even there; why hadn’t she thrown herself into the river, like she had promised to do so many times in the past? He didn’t dare to wake her up and ask. He just saw her sleeping, ever so quietly; moving her legs from one side to the other, as if something were bothering her.

It wasn’t the cruel, hurtful kind of anger that Tyrion knew so well, but something different; something impalpable and nameless that he couldn't place. Weariness had contorted her face, making her breathe heavily; and suddenly, all the frowns and all the glares and curses were gone, only leaving behind a slightly hurt expression. If he hadn’t been so mortified by her suicide threats of the evening, Tyrion would have admitted that she looked beautiful again; for all the melancholy and cruelty that now defined her were lost in sleep.

Night, once again, brought her closer to him, and suddenly desire, peace and even love seemed possible between them. Anything less turbulent than those seas of conflict and despairing emotions would have been enough for Tyrion, if only it could be granted freely. Maybe, it’s because of this that he touches her, ever so lightly, in the greenish gloom of early dawn; refusing to let his fear for rejection get between them one more time. It’s almost sweet to put a hand on her shoulder and not feel her tremble. Feeling strangely bold, Tyrion followed the trail of her arm, touching the pearly skin of the elbow and then of the wrist, and then the slightly tanned skin in the back of her hand. He’s not brave enough to go lower, thought. He never is.

Sansa watched him through tired eyes, with the mild surprise of a girl who finds a cat rubbing against her legs. Despite the initial tension that ran through her body, she didn’t coil away from him as she might have done in the past, and Tyrion could find some comfort in that. Her breath still smelled to summerwine and to something less than sweet that vaguely reminded him to last night’s supper. Her eyes looked sleepy still, and he could see a vague trace of crusts besides the bridge of her nose. She didn’t seem particularly distressed, but still Tyrion pulled his hand away. He knew that’s what she wanted him to do. He knew that she wanted to push him away, and that if he got any closer she would begin to cry and scream for help; and he couldn’t blame her, because a small hint of resentment inside him made Tyrion feel the same way whenever she laid hands on him. He couldn’t bring himself to scream now, thought, and neither could she.

He understood now that there was no reason for them to fight, or to feel disgusted by the other. They were the same thing, after all. The same trembling vermin gnawed to the bone. One in that tangle of clew where the white wool and the black wool fought each other like spiders in a web. And in that fight he could feel Sansa circling him; trapping him in furious grip that came so fast and so brusquely that it knocked the air out of his lungs. She was clinging to him, like she had done so many times in the past while being asleep, but this time with the strength and vehemence that only consciousness could muster. Appalled, perhaps even scared, Tyrion stroked her hair in a poor attempt at consolation, and not without surprise he saw how his hand began to gush in the greenish gloom.

He turned to look at Sansa, who was embracing him so tightly that he could barely get the air in and out of his lungs, and saw the fear contorting her face and the tears flooding her eyes. And then it dawned on him; how afraid she really was of drowning; of losing her last lifeboat; her last chance; her last everything. And he knew that he had just pulled her out of the water, as carelessly as a fisherman who throws a fish into the river. Now she laid over the stones of the bay, surrounded by lost shoes, curious voices and hungry critters; with her hair wet, her lips livid and her clear eyes wide open.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Home, Tessa Violet.


End file.
